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He didn't have to be James St Clair anymore, was the first thing he realised. He could be anyone—go by any name he wanted and vanish into the the vast unknown. He was a Reborn in this colourless land, and he could do anything now.
The heady weight of the collar—his collar—felt intoxicating even as it lay in the satchel he had pulled off some idle dilettante. James had seen fit to divest said dilettante of his purse as well. It was an even trade—he'd spared the man's life and left him slumbering in an alleyway.
(For one moment he had considered simply crushing the man's throat. It was what Lord Crenshaw would have expected. It was what came naturally to him; batting around annoyances and cutting off trouble with all the finesse of a hot knife going through butter.
He had paused, one booted foot elevated over his victim's neck. Then he had simply walked away.)
It was not for anything as trite as sentimentality. James patted the satchel absentmindedly as he waited for his ferry. Already, he was running through plans inside his head—going back to Simon was out of the question, but the Crenshaws had hidey-holes scattered across the country. He would raid enough for his purposes, and then—
And then? An endless game of cat and mouse, fleeing and hiding, hunted wherever he went, until his pursuers caught him.
The ferry gong was struck. James shook himself back into alacrity and strode ahead, satchel tightly clenched to his side. He ensconced himself by the corner of one of the railings. No one approached him; he stood there, leaning with his back to the water and head tilted up to face the noontime sun. The ferry shuddered beneath his feet.
For one breathless moment, the satchel slipped from his fingers. He caught it at once, but the fragile calm he'd settled into was ruined. Why had he taken the ferry? Stupid, so stupid—any number of Simon's men could be hidden in the crowd, a horse would have been—predictable—but still—
Unconsciously, his fingers traced circles onto the leather of the satchel. He forced himself to stop as he noticed. For one long moment, he looked at the cold grey of the water and thought about tossing the both of them—boy and collar, both ancient relics of a bygone age—into its watery depths.
The thought slipped away as quickly as it came. The ferry gong struck again and James padded his way down the gangplank. He had survived the Stewards and he had survived Simon. He would keep surviving, by any means necessary.
He scraped his gaze over the docks one last time, and then he set off to hunt.
#
James heard of Simon's death from one of the smuggling grunts who had been unfortunate enough to be at the safehouse James had picked to raid supplies from.
"Repeat that?" he said coolly.
The man shuddered all over. "Please, sir, that's just what the boys at the docks were saying—they said the Master rode off by himself and he hasn't been back two days now—"
James forestalled any more of the man's useless blubbering by flicking a finger to toss him against the wall. He slumped there, unconscious, while James furiously paced and planned.
He left and spied on two more of Simon's bases before he let himself begin to believe that it was all true—that Will Kempen and his band of misfits had done what James had longed for and never dared to do.
James stood stock-still, watching the evening market crowds mix and meld. He was in some town half a day's ride from London—he couldn't be bothered to remember what its name was. Just another one of London's grasping parasites, trying desperately to capture a gleam of something greater than itself.
Like the Crenshaws. Like the Stewards.
James walked slowly and aimlessly. He espied his reflection on a shopfront—he looked like a piece of Grosvenor Square that had wandered unknowingly into strange parts.
He studied his reflection critically. As a child, he had worn the uniform of the novitiates. As a boy, he had been clothed by Lord Crenshaw in a manner that befitted the most precious antique in his collection. Now—apparently—he was a man, but as he stood there looking at himself in the glass, he could not quite espy anything about himself that had not been painted on by others.
"Would the gentleman like to step in?"
James looked up. The shop door had swung open and a woman was smiling guilelessly at him. Bolts of fabric lined the room behind her.
"Yes," said James meditatively. "I think I will."
#
In the past, Simon or the Earl had chosen the cut and colour of James' clothes. The Crenshaws were fond of matching sets—they wore black-on-black, as if they wanted to announce their divine ancestry to the world in every way possible.
James studied his reflection critically in the dressing mirror. The garments the dressmaker had put together couldn't lift a candle to Savile Row, of course, but they were reasonably well-made.
"The blue suits you, sir," gushed the proprietress. "It matches your eyes!"
James was inclined to agree. He turned, checked his reflection—and stopped blank.
"Get me something darker," he said, belatedly adding, "please."
Tbe proprietress came back with a navy blue set that James paid for promptly. He changed into his new clothes and walked away briskly.
It was strange—light blue could barely harken back to the shining whiteness of the robes the Stewards wore. And yet—
There was a growing knot of frustration somewhere inside him. Here he was, walking in circles, chasing rumours and wasting time, when out there was Will Kempen and the remnants of the Old World.
James finally let himself think of that day—the other boy holding out the Collar to him freely. No bargains and no trials.
He felt a phantom ache in his shoulder and rubbed it absentmindedly. Then he squared his shoulders and closed his eyes, tossing his head out to sway with the winds. When he opened his eyes again, he knew where to go.